


Fever Dreams

by DasMervin, MrsHyde (DasMervin)



Series: The Writing on the Wall [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Awesome Bobby, Awesome Sam, Confused Dean, Drama, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Family Feels, Gen, Guilty Castiel, Headcanon, Heavy Angst, Human Castiel, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD, Season Seven that Wasn't, Slash, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 15:56:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/DasMervin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/MrsHyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas copes—or rather, <i>doesn’t</i>—with guilt and his new humanity.  Bobby and Sam try to help him deal, and Dean is still hiding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fever Dreams

_May 2012_

Dammit. It didn’t matter that he’d read this book twice already and had only started reading it again tonight in the first place as part of an effort to get tired so he could sleep. But no—he knew the damn ending and knew how it all went, but here he was, caught up in the grim adventures of Katniss and Peeta. Again. Maybe this time he’d make himself stop right when they changed the rules of the game on ‘em.

Really, Bobby was just enjoying being able to sit in his bed upstairs and read and not really have much on his mind. Sure, his mind was goin’—there were still a lot of things to be thinkin’ about, after all, but so _many_ of them were already taken care of…how long had it been since he’d just gotten into his _real_ bed with a non-research book and read just because he could? In all honesty, he didn’t want to think about how long it’d been, because that just got him thinking about everything else. Namely, got him thinkin’ about the gory details of last week, and he didn’t really _want_ to think about that.

Nope—only things he wanted to think about were how Dean and Sam were both alive and in one piece, _he_ was alive and in one piece, and Cas was back to himself (mostly, anyway). No new God to worry about, no cold war between Heaven and Hell anymore, no cultists chasin’ ‘em from one coast to the other, all souls put back where they belonged. They’d won, and now they could just…take a little time to recover from it.

Well, he and Sam could, anyway. Cas was gonna need a _lot_ of recovery time, given his little situation. The bruises had faded, but he was still scabby and unsteady on his feet. But he’d only been five days in his new skin—he’d work himself out. And if he didn’t, he could just suck it up and work himself out anyway.

And then there was Dean.

Bobby sighed, scowling at his book. Yeah— _Dean._ He wasn’t in the house and Bobby knew it—he hadn’t slept in here at all since the second night after Cas’s big bang. He always left and never, _ever_ got in the same room as Cas. He wouldn’t talk about him, look at him, and Bobby would guess he was doin’ his best to not even _think_ about him. Granted, he wasn’t bein’ all that chatty with anybody else, either. He was slinking around the house, hiding when he could, not taking part in much conversation, and mostly just retreating into the garage with a couple of six-packs at every opportunity. And now he was driving off at night and only showing up again in the morning.

Bobby wasn’t dumb. He knew why—he’d seen that hickey behind Cas’s ear.

Granted, just ‘cause he wasn’t dumb didn’t mean he fully understood why Dean suddenly felt…whatever it was he felt for Cas now. The night it’d first happened, Bobby had actually pondered the situation for a bit, trying to rethink the way Cas and Dean interacted before all this and look for any hint at all that Dean had an interest in guys (or that Cas had any interest in anybody), but he came up pretty blank. Dean bein’ prone to man-crushes didn’t make the boy gay or anything. That bein’ the case, then he’d wondered just what the _hell_ could’ve happened in that field to make Dean and Cas suddenly kiss each other like that—wasn’t like this was the first time Dean had seen Cas come back to life and vice versa. But he didn’t ponder any of it too much because, really, it wasn’t his business and quite frankly, he didn’t want to ponder Dean sneaking into Cas’s room so he could give him a hickey. That wasn’t an image he needed. Dean and Cas’s business was Dean and Cas’s business and Bobby would be more than happy if they would _keep_ it that way.

Though if Dean decided he wanted to keep brooding and sulking and being a general bitch for months on end, Bobby was gonna very quickly _make_ it everyone’s business, and then they’d all be in trouble.

Bobby sighed, settling in more comfortably and turning the page. No, he wasn’t gonna think about that, either. If Dean or Cas made trouble about this new…whatever, he’d worry about it when he got there. For now, he was gonna let things play out and concentrate mostly on picking up the pieces and settling back into his old routine as best he could, a task greatly hindered by the fact that he had a tenant now, and one he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with—or if he even wanted to keep him.

After Sam had come back from Goodwill with Cas’s new wardrobe and they’d spent half an hour trying it all on to make sure it fit, Cas had timidly approached Bobby and asked what his living situation was gonna be. Bobby had, naturally, gruffly told him that he was their responsibility, so he gonna live here under _his_ roof at least until he had some idea of how the world worked when you were a human, and a hunter to boot, and then added that it might be even longer than that, given his Universe’s Most Wanted Ex-Angel status. But then Bobby had quickly told him that that didn’t mean just freeloading, and had said he’d be teaching him how to do chores around the house because the little bastard was gonna _earn_ his keep—no way Bobby was gonna let him lay around the house and play pitiful or mooch off of him, not after what he’d done to all of them for the past two years. Bobby had already made a list of all the shit he wanted Cas to do, and it was still growing—he was gonna make him _work_ , dammit. ‘Cause he deserved it, if nothing else, and if he complained, Bobby would box his ears. He didn’t wanna hear a _peep_ out of him when he started Cas in on mopping his floors and doin’ his dishes and painting his walls and scrubbin’ his toilets. He could do it and like it. His fault in the first place that Bobby’s house was such a mess anyway. None of them had been able to live in it for almost a full year, what with him chasin’ them around and stationing his little minions in it. Look how great an attempted break-in into his _own house_ to get some of the books they needed had gone.

Bobby rubbed unconsciously at his chest. Yeah, he knew how it’d gone. Just ‘cause he didn’t remember any of it didn’t mean he…wasn’t aware that it was Cas’s fault he’d gotten shot thirteen times by a bunch of cultists.

Dammit, he hadn’t wanted to think about that and now here he was thinkin’ about it! Glaring firmly at the book in front of him, he focused on the words in front of him, because the 74th Annual Hunger Games were on and he wanted to get back into that—even this fantasy was somehow less grim than his own reality because he didn’t have to friggin’ live it, so he began reading again, picking up where he—

He forgot the book entirely when the screaming started.

Dropping it into his lap, he jerked upright when he heard it, just that horrible, panicky wailing—and it didn’t take him but two seconds to realize where it was coming from—

“ _Shit!_ ” he snarled, throwing the blankets off and rushing across the room to the door, yanking it open and running as best he could across the hall to Cas’s room. The minute he’d opened his door, he’d heard it better, heard that it wasn’t just screaming—there were slurred, sobbed words in there—

“ _No—NO—DEAN, NO—!_ ”

Bobby burst into the room, slamming the light on as he went and there was Cas, thrashing wildly in bed, knotted up in the sheets as he shrieked incoherently.

“Cas!” Bobby hollered, over to his bed in three steps and struggling to get his hands on his shoulders—not an easy task, given how Cas was flopping around. But he finally did, digging his fingers hard into Cas’s upper arms and holding him still. “ _Cas!_ ” he bellowed again, shaking him hard.

Cas’s eyes flew open, panicked and agonized and terrified.

“Bobby— _Dean_ , he’s—” And then he started struggling violently, trying to wrench himself free of Bobby’s grasp. “He’s _dead_ , Bobby, dead, I— _I killed him, why didn’t I—_ ” A horrible sob cut off whatever else he was gonna say as he fought against Bobby.

“Cas, dammit, he isn’t—Dean’s fine!” Bobby growled, readjusting his grip as Cas wriggled—Jesus, he wasn’t strong, but he was shapin’ up to be a damn fine escape artist.

“ _No, no, I saw it—I_ did _it, he’s dead!_ ” Cas wailed, his voice cracking.

“ _No, he’s not!_ He’s not dead, you had a fucking nightmare! Dean’s _alive_ , you just _saw him tonight_! It wasn’t real!” Bobby punctuated his words with several hard shakes, anything to get him to _be still_.

Well, that seemed to work. Cas was rigid and shaking, his bloodshot eyes wide and huge and leaking tears as he panted furiously, but at least he stopped fighting against him.

Bobby pressed the advantage. “ _It wasn’t real._ Dean is _fine_. He’s in _town_. He’ll be back in the morning. You were asleep and you had a nightmare,” he said slowly and deliberately.

“A—a nightmare?” Cas panted, his eyes still wild.

“Yeah, Cas—it was just a bad dream. You’re fine—and Dean’s fine.”

While Cas caught his breath and struggled to process what he’d just been told, Bobby suddenly became aware of the hot, bare skin under his hand, the bare shoulder pinned against the pillows, the bare leg poking out from the sheets and blankets—the _bare hip_ just uncovered when Cas shifted a little as he calmed down—

Bobby quickly let him go and backed off—goddammit, what the hell was he doing up here naked?! He reached down and yanked the sheets more firmly over Cas’s waist, because he didn’t want to risk getting an eye-full of Cas’s junk, didn’t matter what the issue was.

Cas’s weak cough snapped him back to said issue. “That…that’s what it feels like to dream?” Cas rasped.

Bobby nodded grimly. “Yeah, it is. Not the same as when you’d just come spelunking into ours?”

Cas shook his head, closing his eyes. “No…no, it—”

“Felt so real,” Bobby finished gruffly. “Yeah. But it isn’t. Dean’s fine, you’re fine, we’re _all_ fine. Now calm down and go back to sleep.” Bobby hesitated, staring down at Cas’s pathetic form as he sniffed and wiped at his eyes and nose with the back of his hand. “You want a drink of water?” Bobby finally offered.

Cas didn’t move for a second, but then he just nodded a little. Bobby huffed, turning around and stumping back to the door, scowling. Great—the rotten bastard just guilt-tripped him with his pitiful routine and now here he was, _waiting_ on him. Well, once was enough—if this happened again, Cas could get his own damn drink of water.

Bobby was back in short order, thrusting the full glass into Cas’s hands, and then waited silently as Cas just tipped it back and started drinking, and just like he always did when it came to food and drink, he kept it up to his lips until the whole thing was drained. Bobby took it back from him when he was done.

“Thank you,” Cas said softly.

Bobby just grunted. “Go back to sleep.”

Cas did as he was told, slowly laying back down in bed and curling up into a ball, dragging all of the sheets and blankets into a cocoon around him. Bobby waited until he was still before he turned to leave.

As he shuffled out and back down the hall to return the glass to the bathroom, he sighed, resigned.

He had a feeling that he’d be doin’ this again.

* * *

_June 2012_

Bobby stared blackly at the ceiling. _Again?_ How many nights in a row was this?!

He could hear him in there, just friggin’ _screaming_ , and wryly wondered what it was this time. He’d had several about killin’ Dean, one about killin’ or hurtin’ Sam, some were just him thinkin’ he was covered in monster souls again, and one where he was just shrieking about his winged brothers up top. And now, _again_.

He’d given Cas some heavy-duty sleeping pills after the third time (which Dean had bitched about, just like he had when he’d been around long enough to tell Bobby to stop giving Cas pain pills), and they’d done jack shit for the dreams; guess they only worked on 100% humans. After that, Bobby had diligently gone in and woken him up every single time, like he was a little kid or something. But it’d been _two weeks_ , and Bobby’d had to do this _every night_.

Well, time for him to grow the hell up. He could wake himself up.

Bobby contemplated his pillow, wondering if using it would be enough to block out his racket. Probably not, but it’d be muffled and he’d slept through louder. ‘Sides, wouldn’t be too long before Cas—

The loud crash and sound of shattering glass and a cry of pain got Bobby out of bed once again, swearing a blue streak as he stormed out of his room. _Dammit, Cas!_

Throwing the light switch on, Bobby squinted against the sudden brightness, immediately seeing Cas on the floor, his broken lamp beside him as he struggled where he’d fallen, blinking in confusion, his sheets and blankets knotted around him.

Bobby made to step into the room and go to him, but then he saw all of the shards of glass all over the floor. _Balls._

“Don’t move,” he growled, rushing back to his room to get his house shoes. Once they were on, he trotted back inside, side-stepping as much of the glass as he could and reaching down to help Cas up.

Cas started as he stared up at him, his eyes wet as usual, his look panicked and agonized, only this time he had a nasty cut on his forehead that was already leaking blood; must’ve hit the corner of his nightstand on his way down. “Bobby?” he whispered.

“Who else has been wakin’ you up for the past two weeks?” Bobby grunted, squatting down to get a better grip on him. “Come on, get—”

“You’re _alive_ ,” Cas gasped, his hands coming up to grab at his shirt, and Bobby saw that his left was bloody right before he smeared it all over his _white_ shirt. _Dammit._ “You’re—Bobby, you’re—”

Bobby stared down at Cas, staggering a little as Cas just lunged forward and clung to him. For a few seconds, Bobby wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, but then he finally snapped out of it and grabbed Cas again. “ _Yes_ , I’m alive, you idjit, you just had another nightmare. Come on, get up—watch where you step, you broke the light bulb in the lamp.”

Cas pulled back a little, letting Bobby help him to his feet. As he rose, his sheets fell down and—

“ _Dammit_ , Cas!” he barked, jerking his head to the side and staring forcefully at the wall. “Why the hell aren’t you wearing clothes?”

There was a pause. “Because I was sleeping,” Cas answered uncertainly, as if he thought it was a trick question.

Bobby prayed for patience. “And you sleeping means you _can’t wear clothes_? I know Sam bought you some shorts! I was there when he brought ‘em in!” he barked.

Cas sat down where Bobby steered him and Bobby quickly yanked the sheets back up over Cas’s naked butt. “I don’t like the shorts,” Cas said. “They’re uncomfortable and chafe my genitals and get lodged in the crack of my buttocks.”

Bobby resisted the urge to slap his forehead with his hand. “So you just—okay, never mind. Sit here, I’ll be right back,” he ordered, turning around and stomping out of the room. He swung into the bathroom, opening the medicine cabinet and snagging his first aid kit and, thinking on it, a roll of toilet paper. Then he stumped back to Cas’s room.

Cas hadn’t moved, of course, and was just sitting there staring at his injured hand. Bobby went around the glass and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Come on, gimme that,” he said gruffly, setting the kit on the blanket and snapping it open. He didn’t wait for Cas to stretch his arm over to him and grabbed his wrist, tugging it over next to him. Blood dripped onto the bedspread as he did, and Bobby huffed irritably—that meant he’d have to wash the sheets. Well, Cas could wash them, anyway; Bobby had started him on the laundry now, and since he was the one bleeding all over the bed, he could be the one to clean it.

Bobby mopped it up first, cleaning off the blood before daubing some alcohol on it. Cas winced, his fingers twitching a little, but he was still for the most part. Once it was completely cleaned off and disinfected, Bobby saw that it was just a very shallow cut—no need for stitches at all. He wrapped it in gauze after that, and then leaned forward, brushing Cas’s hair away from his temple so he could get a look at the cut on his head. Blood had dribbled down to his cheek, and Bobby thrust a wad of toilet paper into his hand. “Wipe your face off,” he told him.

Cas did as he was told, and once he was done, Bobby dabbed some cotton soaked in alcohol on his forehead, too. It was even shallower than his hand, so all it’d need was a Band-Aid.

He rummaged through the kit, looking for the appropriate size, and then he heard Cas murmur, “I’m…I don’t like…being unable to repair these wounds.”

Bobby glanced up, giving him a dark look. “Don’t you start that crap,” he said flatly. “You forget who you’re talkin’ to? You know—the guy who spent a year in a wheelchair? Stop mopin’ just ‘cause you can’t zap away a tiny cut on your hand. That’s how it is now—and that’s how it is for every human.” He roughly pressed the Band-Aid on his forehead, and then snapped the kit closed. “You hit your brand on the way down? That feelin’ okay?”

Cas nodded. “It…hurts, but no more than usual.”

Bobby grunted. “Get settled again. I’ll be back with the broom and vacuum to sweep this up.”

“I’ll do it,” Cas said quietly.

“No, you won’t,” Bobby retorted, heaving himself to his feet. “You aren’t wearin’ shoes—you aren’t wearin’ _anything_ —and the floor is covered in glass. You’ll slice your feet to ribbons, and I ain’t interested in reenacting _Die Hard_ with you. I’ll take care of it. Stay there.”

He sighed, turning and shuffling back out the door, rubbing his head with his hand. He was tired, dammit. Cas was hardly sleeping and was making sure he couldn’t, either, and now he had to do housework at three in the morning.

Well, no matter what was going on tonight, Bobby was forced to face the grim reality. He couldn’t just let Cas wake himself up from his nightmares, if this was what was gonna happen. If anything, he couldn’t spend that much money on light bulbs and lamps. Cas appeared to be some kind of weird deep sleepwalker—when he did go to sleep, he just would _not_ wake up unless somebody snapped him out of it, no matter how fitful it actually was. Must be that whole “not quite human” thing. And Bobby…wasn’t gonna let him hurt himself all the time if that was the case.

Bobby sighed again. At least he was used to runnin’ on little sleep.

* * *

_July 2012_

When Sam had first started having the really bad nightmares caused by his time in Hell, Dean had had to wake him up more than a few times. He’d had all kinds of ways of doing it, too—he’d thrown a beer can at him once, turned up the car radio really loud, and once had just kicked him out of bed and told him to stop screaming because he’d get the cops called on them. He’d mostly played it for laughs and acted very casual about it, but Sam hadn’t been stupid—he’d seen the worry in his eyes behind his gruff wake-up calls and, while he’d found it extremely annoying and been embarrassed and vaguely humiliated by it all, he’d appreciated it—a crushed Bud Light can bouncing off his head was infinitely preferable to reliving Lucifer slowly peeling the skin off of his face again.

Problem was, though, he never, ever thought he’d have to extend the same courtesy to someone else, and he _never_ imagined he’d be doing it for _Cas_.

When Bobby had left that night to go head out so he could hit the annual rare book fair out in California as he did almost every year, he’d quietly taken Sam aside and informed him that he was going sleep upstairs for the duration, and could even have Bobby’s room for his troubles if he wanted (he hadn’t), and that if Cas had one of his regular night-terrors, which he very likely would, Sam needed to go wake him up. Sam did know how frequent Cas’s nightmares were—but, to be honest, he hadn’t known how _intense_ they were. Sleeping downstairs kind of muffled the noise, so when Cas started screaming, it startled Sam awake to the point that he almost flew off of the couch, for two seconds thinking that something had found them and was about to kill them all.

But then he’d remembered and had raced down the hall, thundering loudly enough to wake Dean up—well, if he hadn’t already been woken up by Cas, anyway.

All he could really hear was the word “no” over and over again, but it didn’t matter—the fact that it was horrible was the only thing that really mattered and Sam quickly threw the door open and flicked on the light, rushing over to where Cas was tearing wildly at his own chest with one hand while the other remained pinned to his side because he’d somehow gotten the sheets wrapped around him, turning him into a shrieking angelic enchilada.

“ _Cas!_ ” he hollered, grabbing his arms and shaking him, all while struggling to make him stop thrashing like that.

Cas’s eyes snapped open, huge and terrified and full of agony.

“Hey,” Sam said quickly. “It’s Sam. You’re okay—everybody is. It’s fine.”

Cas just stared up at him uncomprehendingly for a few seconds, almost as if he had no idea who Sam was or even understood the words that he was saying. And then his eyes slowly closed, and he licked his lips as he turned away, shifting as he tried to extricate his arm from his sheets. “Sam,” he muttered. “Thank you.”

Mostly because he didn’t know what to say to that, Sam just nodded even though Cas couldn’t see it and then moved to sit down on the edge of the bed. He watched and waited as Cas slowly got his arm free of his blankets and then managed to sit up, the sheets falling down, and Sam frowned when he saw the red scratches on Cas’s chest. “You okay?” he asked, waving a hand at them. “Those hurt?”

Cas blinked slowly at him, and then looked down at himself, seeming vaguely surprised by what he saw. “Only a little,” Cas answered quietly. “I don’t think they are serious.”

“Good,” Sam said.

They lapsed into silence, and it was so uncomfortable that Sam had to break it again after only a few seconds. “So, you want a drink of water or something, or…” He trailed off and glanced up and saw Cas just blinking solemnly back at him, and saw his red-rimmed eyes, which were suspiciously wet, and just remembering the fear he’d seen when Cas had first woken up made him add what he said next. “…or talk about it?”

He wasn’t sure if it was the fact that he could relate to Cas’s night terrors or the fact that seeing Cas _crying_ still tugged at his heartstrings simply because it was so _wrong_ and made Cas look so fragile and diminished that made him ask, but either way, he had, and he meant it. Because he understood.

“They’re only nightmares. I don’t know why we should talk about them,” Cas said, wiping his eyes with one hand.

“Well,” Sam said, coughing a little, “sometimes it helps. I, uh, just wanted you to know that…I kinda know how you feel about them. I know what it’s like to have some bad nightmares about stuff that really happened—ones that are so bad you sometimes can’t tell if they’re fake or not. So, you know—you won’t have to explain too much because I understand what you’re going through.”

He’d meant it to be reassuring—just a way to let Cas know that he had a friend in this particular shithole. But when he finished, he saw Cas just…crumple, and he turned away from Sam with one of the most miserable looks he’d ever seen on his face.

“Hey—what’s wrong?” Sam asked, jostling the bed a little.

“I deserve these nightmares,” Cas murmured.

“What?” Sam demanded sharply. “No—no, don’t you do that, Cas, you do _not_ deserve these.”

“I do.” He faced Sam again, looking mournful and near-tears again. “It’s…only right that I have them after…cursing you with the same.”

Sam’s jaw clenched. “Cas, _no_. That’s _not_ right. You didn’t—you didn’t _give me_ these nightmares, okay?”

“Yes I did—it’s my fault. If not for breaking the wall and failing to…to heal you fully, like I’d promised, but because I…left your soul in the Cage to be tortured.”

“Cas, you didn’t do that on purpose,” Sam said firmly. “You didn’t know.”

“Does it matter?” Cas said unhappily. “It’s simply proof that—that everything I do, no matter what the intent—no matter what it is, I destroy the things I care about the most. I fail, and everyone else pays. You were right before, Sam.” He shut his eyes. “I did a…a piss-poor job of bringing you back.”

“Cas, _stop_.”

Cas blinked up at Sam, and Sam reached out and grabbed his shoulder—the left, because Cas’s right shoulder was still tender from his brand. “Look—just—I was wrong, Cas. I was _wrong_ to say that. Things…were bad then, and none of us were thinking clearly. You were wrong to side with Crowley, yes—but _I_ was wrong to say _that_.” He kept his eyes on Cas’s making him look at him. “I’m _grateful_ for what you did—I mean, come on, think about what would’ve happened to me if you _hadn’t_ tried to pull me out. It doesn’t matter if you only got half of me, Cas—if you hadn’t tried at all, _I’d still be down there_. Having—having a few Hell-scars is a small price to pay, considering I thought I’d be down there for _eternity_.”

Sam was having to work to keep talking, because he was realizing the truth behind his words even as he said them. “You…you fought and clawed your way through Hell for me, Cas, and you _did_ save me. So what if I’m a little worse for wear? I’m alive, and I’m here—and it’s because of you. I’m—I’m sorry I said that to you before, about…you not doing a good job. Because you did—you did the best you could. And I know that.”

Sam wanted to say thank you, but really couldn’t—not with the way Cas was staring at him, all big eyes that were starting to leak tears again, his expression disbelieving and overjoyed and grateful and vaguely…reverent, which was a little disturbing, but the rest of it was making Sam’s throat close up.

Cas suddenly started leaning forward, hesitant and unsure as he raised one arm, but Sam got the message. He managed a smile and pulled him over, and only grimaced a little when one of Cas’s arms wrapped around his torso and Cas leaned on him, his head on his shoulder, giving him an uncomfortably clingy half-hug. Sam wryly remembered refusing a hug from Cas once, claiming it’d be too awkward. And yeah, he was right—this was awkward. But hell, if he could endure hugs from _Garth_ , he could sure as hell take one from Cas.

Gingerly, he patted his shoulder, careful to avoid his exposed brand, which, he noticed, was looking less and less bloody and open and more scabby every day, and then he caught a glimpse all the way down Cas’s bare back—

And he froze when he suddenly saw Cas’s buttcrack, just hanging out there for the world to see.

_Oh, God. He’s not wearing any clothes._

As quickly and delicately as he could, Sam pulled away, getting his hands around Cas’s arms and gently but firmly pushing him back into bed. “Okay, so, uh—you go back to sleep now,” he said, sounding only a little strangled as he rapidly let Cas to go yank the sheets and blankets back up to Cas’s chest. Cas seemed oblivious to Sam’s discomfort, though, which was a relief, and simply did as he was told, getting himself resituated so that he wasn’t laying on his brand. Sam quickly stood up, feeling awkward because he’d just had a naked hug from a naked angel, but he pushed past it and gave Cas a reassuring smile. “Good night—I’ll wake you up again if you—you know.”

“Yes. Good night.”

Sam turned to leave, but then Cas spoke again. “Sam?”

Sam stopped and looked back at Cas. “Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Sam smiled again, and this time it was genuine. “No problem.” And finally, he turned and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

* * *

Cas was screaming.

Dean pulled the blanket more firmly around himself, staring hard at the back of the couch. There—the tightness in his shoulders eased as he heard Sam’s thundering footsteps running down the hall, heard the door swing open so hard it hit the wall…and then the screaming stopped. He couldn’t make out what they were saying now, but he could hear Sam talkin’ to him. Finally, that quieted down to the point where he couldn’t hear it, either.

Dean resolutely shut his eyes, ignoring the painful little twist his stomach had made when Cas had started up.

The _fuck_ he was going up there.


End file.
